


Spilt Milk

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-02
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 17:11:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cmcross prompted: "Sherlock brings home a baby deer. He and John adopt it, at Sherlock's insistence. Where he finds a baby deer in the greater London area, I leave to you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spilt Milk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cmcross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmcross/gifts).



"You realize what people are going to call you now," John said, watching Sherlock struggle to feed the thing with its bottle. He was going to drip milk all on the floor if he wasn't careful.

"What's that?" Sherlock "aha"ed when he figured out feeding it, for now. "John?"

"A deer stalker." 

Sherlock gave an almighty pout. "Well if this looks so easy, you do it."

John had been quite proud of the joke, actually, though he didn't know why he'd expected Sherlock to act like it was clever. "We should call Animal Charity, Sherlock," he tsked. 

"But John," Sherlock said, eyes wide with sentiment, as they infrequently but passionately were known to become. "John, the mother had _died_."

John leaned back in the chair at the weight of the gaze. He recalled the way they'd stopped their investigation of the forest when they saw the dead doe and the poor, lone fawn who hadn't move from her side yet. "Fine," he said. "For now. Animal Charity," he reminded Sherlock. "Soon."

"But not yet, John." His eyes begged more than demanded.

John knelt on the floor next to Sherlock, tentatively reaching out to the little fawn. It really was sweet, wasn't it? And it had no one else in the world. Sherlock and John had both identified with its loneliness. He sighed. "No, not yet."

"Good," Sherlock said, sitting up straight, replacing the raw emotion with a cool wall of arrogance. "And we're calling him Hamish."

John's lip quirked, and before he knew it the bottle was in his hand and Sherlock was heading toward the kitchen.

"Sherlock!"

"It's your turn now, John. Hamish luuuurves you," he said with a mocking laugh, trying to figure out which of the petri dishes had more promising signs of growth.

"You. Are. A git," said John, shaking his head. Hamish blinked up at him with large, shining eyes.


End file.
